Indian-American writer Nandini D'Souza comes to terms with the playground politics of raising a mixed-race daughter.

Of all the things you expect to hear as a new mom, that is the last. My daughter was barely two months old, strapped to me in her BabyBjörn, with only her cheeks and nose visible. "Yes," I said, clearly peeved at this stranger's lack of belief. The young man standing next to me on the street who uttered those words leaned in for a closer peek. "No way. She's too white," he insisted.

I chalked it up to a stranger being overly presumptuous. But then a few weeks later, at my daughter's three-month checkup, a mother in the doctor's waiting room asked if I worked with toddlers too. It took me a moment to figure out what she meant. I didn't know how to respond except to say that I was her mom and avoid eye contact, as she obviously felt the discomfort of her foot in her mouth.

I'm Indian, a medium to dark brown depending on the season. My husband, Myles, is Irish-German via Queens. He's milk white with blond hair and clear light-blue eyes. But honestly, we never paid much attention to color. Until I got pregnant. Like most parents, we spent hours wondering whether our daughter would be an extrovert like me or shy like him. Would she be good with words or numbers? Would she listen to Wilco or Metallica?

However, I swore that she'd look more Indian than anything else. I had science to prove it. I conceded that some half-and-half children are a balanced blend but that because of Myles's extreme fairness, there was no way my big B's wouldn't trump his little b's. Asha would have a swath of thick jet-black hair, dark-brown almond-shaped Asha eyes, and buttery light-brown skin.

Shocker! The very first thing out of my mouth when my daughter was born was "Oh, my God, she's beautiful." The second was "Oh, my God, she's white." The latter elicited a chuckle out of my Asian doctor and African-American and Hispanic nurses.

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Please know that observation had nothing to do with a personal preference and everything to do with hard-won pride in my cultural makeup. I have spent decades trying to figure out and feel good about growing up brown. Imagine me in a small, racially one-note (save for us) Connecticut town in the late '70s and early '80s, explaining to my first-grade pals that we didn't live in a teepee but were actually from a country called India. Imagine me being told by my third-grade classmate's mom that I shouldn't play Mary in the Christmas play because I didn't look like her. (My principal pointed out that I probably actually did.)

I'm not looking for the sympathy vote here. I had a happy, well-adjusted childhood. Thanks to my extraordinary parents, I was surrounded by open-minded people of all backgrounds and learned to seek out like-minded friends. But like everyone, I had an insecurity, and this was it. It took me years to realize how lucky I am to be Indian-American.

When Asha was born, it seemed as though I had to start explaining myself again and, harder still, explaining how this beautiful child fit into my world. I'm not the only one, I told myself. Assuming your name isn't Angelina or Madonna, this must be how parents who adopt feel. It starts with a stranger's double take, followed by a mental calculation of whether the circle fits in the square. Yes, it does.

At first, I tried taking it in stride, believing that the comments weren't malicious: the mother on the playground who asked me my weekly rate. The dry cleaner who asked if Asha's parents lived in the building and if I liked working for them. An elevator passenger who curiously looked from Asha to me to Myles before asking him, "Is she yours?" It was the first time Myles had been on the receiving end. "Did that guy think you were my mistress or the nanny?" he joked. We laughed it off together.

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And yet a few instances hit a nerve and brought up a greater concern of how I could protect my daughter from the insensitive things people say. One day in music class, while I was trying to get Asha to pay attention and return a toy she had swiped, another mother snapped at me. "Can't you see she's tired? Leave her alone!" she said loudly in front of the whole class. "That's the mother," her friend whispered. I was equal parts infuriated and humiliated.

After that, I formed a chip on my shoulder, reading into everything and responding with an aggressive humor that probably made people who are probably very nice feel embarrassed.

One afternoon, I was standing with Asha in the lobby of our building. Just outside, two women with infants were talking to our doorman Eddie. One looked at Asha and asked him, "Who's that little girl's mom?" Eddie pointed to me and said, "That's her mom, Nan." I wasn't supposed to hear any of it, but I interjected anyway, "I get that a lot. I apparently put the Nan in nanny." The woman looked mortified. I tried doing damage control, cooing over her child and even suggesting a playdate. But if I were her, I'd think I was scary too.

I began to believe that every person who ignored my attempt at conversation must think that I'm the nanny, therefore a snob I don't want my child around. Ironically, the nannies shied away from me too, knowing I was the mom. I started to think that there was something wrong with me and that I was some sort of playground pariah.

Then my nanny set me straight. She informed me of the unwritten rules. Moms and nannies keep to themselves for a variety of reasons, she said, ranging from snobbery to the desire to be with a group with whom you can safely grouse about the other side. Apparently, sandbox politics are as complicated as any you'll find on Capitol Hill.

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And I'm not interested in playing. Fortunately, I've found a group of equal-opportunity moms and nannies. These women couldn't care less about what you are or where you come from.

More importantly, I've realized this is my baggage, not my daughter's. The majority of people I meet through music class or by the swings are friendly and happy to make a connection for the sake of their kids. And if they ask, awkwardly, if Asha is mine, I give them the benefit of the doubt and answer, "Yes, she favors her dad."

Ultimately, I don't care what Asha looks like. I realize I'm biased, but she's a pretty terrific kid—smart, funny, loving, and incredibly friendly. And yes, for a few weeks after a summer's worth of sunshine or a trip to Mexico, she favors her Indian side. She's too young to understand it, but I tell her often that she is going to change the world for the better, that children of mixed heritage will be the ones to someday figure out how to unite everyone.

Still, I'm not so naive to think that as much as her current group of friends looks like a Benetton ad circa 1986, she won't have to deal with questions of race. For all the Seal-and-Heidi-Klums who are populating the world with gorgeous mixed babies, I know Asha will sometimes have to explain who she is. My only hope is that we will arm her with the confidence and self-possession to handle it with grace. (Better than I did, basically.)

Fortunately, I've already had practice, thanks to my brother's four beautiful mixed children who, interestingly, are a rainbow of brown, none of them matching. Recently, I had to come up with a clear analogy for my four-year-old niece on the spot. All I could think of was "It's the difference between fluffernutter, peanut butter, and Nutella. All different flavors, but all tasty."

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